Keep Your Hands to Yourself
by circlebackwards
Summary: AU where Cas is a weeping/avenging angel and can't resist lingering around Dean Winchester, even though it's against all of Heaven's rules. Protecting a human hunter is not in his job description.
1. I Want to Touch It

**A/N:** I took Cas' angel characteristics from both Supernatural and Doctor Who and mixed them into a holy elaborate cocktail, so it's easier to just explain. Basically Cas is an avenging/weeping angel who sends people back through time and space to punish them, instead of to feed off their time energy. He doesn't quantum lock, so he exists even when someone is not looking at him, but he also has the abilities of a Supernatural angel (e.g. becoming invisible at will, time & space travel, being able to search an entire city simultaneously, etc.). However if he touches something alive (plants, animals, people) with his bare skin, it's automatically sent back in time. If there's anything you'd like me to clarify, or any inconsistencies with his powers, I'll be happy to correct myself!

* * *

Sobbing, terrified, and with a ratted mess of hair, a middle aged woman stumbled down the deserted road, crying for help. She made fairly slow progress since she continually whipped her head back to look over her shoulder and see if it was following her. Gasping, she saw the abandoned barn just down the road and began staggering even more intently towards it; upon reaching it she flung the doors open and hastily shut them, not bothering to slide the thick wooden beam into place. In her bruised, bare feet she slipped and skittered over the hay strewn about the floor to the back corner of the barn, cowering as she crossed herself. 

Castiel sighed. It was tiresome and annoying when they ran, and it just made that tablespoon more of work he had to do to smite them. He ambled after her (because no, angels of the lord did not hurry), and flicking his hand, flung open the barn doors. 

He advanced with ever-increasing distance between the gaps of darkness until he was less than an arm-length away from the sniveling human begging for mercy. The overhead floodlights flashed on and off in rapid succession, creating showers of sparks and a stark contrast between the graffiti and the tin walls. Non-corporeal wings unfolded to cast an ominous shadow throughout the building and revealed the heavenly avenger as Castiel flicked his fingers against the woman's forehead. "Wretch," he growled. 

The woman dissipated instantly, and Castiel withdrew his hand to rub the scowl of contempt from his face. Just another day's work of meting out heaven's judgment to the evil. He briefly imagined how miserable her life would be during the midst of the black plague in Europe and felt a brief flash of satisfaction. Though his superiors chose whom to 'smite,' he got to decide where they went—and it was usually somewhere most dismal indeed. 

"What did that poor soul do this time, Cassie? You really pulled out all the stops to scare the wits out of her. Nice touch by the way, moving between the lights." An oddly cheery voice spoke from his left and the sweet, cloying smell of processed sugar filled the air. 

Castiel turned his head and raised an eyebrow as Gabriel slurped on a candied stick. "Not so much a poor soul as a loathsome parent. She evicted her own child from her household for his choice of husband. I'm not entirely sure why; the young man of choice wasn't particularly objectionable. However it is a grievous sin to not provide for kin, and I do not object to her sentencing." 

Gabriel blew out a silent sigh at his brother's oblivion of humanity's peculiarities and faults regarding sexuality. "Yeah, well, you look dapper as always m'boy," the archangel-slash-trickster continued, clapping the other angel on the shoulder. 

Shrugging him off, Castiel narrowed his eyes, "I'm supposed to look terrifying, absolute. Not…_dapper. _I find intimidation to be the most effective precursor to character reformation in what little time they have left." He exaggeratedly straightened his trench coat and masked his features into the cold mask of holy terror as he prepared to make an abrupt departure. "Now if you will excuse me, I must take care of the father." 

"Wait, Castiel." Gabriel caught his sleeve just before he disappeared. He gave his younger brother a bitter smile, making it clear what he was about to say came from Michael and/or Raphael and that he in no way agreed but wanted to give the message to him because he was much more pleasant about it. "You need to stop touching things, man. The other angels up on high have noticed the 20th century flowers and raccoons ending up in dinosaur salads. You're, uh, messing up the big plan which-I'm-not-really-sure-can-be-done-since-it's-just-the-big-picture-but the people in early time periods are noticing. It's a little worrying." Gabriel's face and tone were sympathetic, no joviality for once as he clutched the coat sleeve, needing the other angel to understand the severity of the situation. 

Castiel's face fell; he had known it was too much to pray that his slip-ups would go unnoticed. How could he help it? Everything was so beautiful, and it was so hard not to touch anything at all. He'd tried to wear gloves after one incident where a father had asked him to hold a baby while he loaded groceries into a car—it was very difficult to finagle himself and the baby out of that—but it was terribly hindersome when he kept forgetting them after removing them for a job. Shoot him, so he liked to try and pick roses, or hug the wildlife. When he had a lapse in memory of the 'no touch rule,' the thing would be sent back to a random place in time, making it more than extremely difficult to track it down and bring it home. So Castiel sometimes cut a corner and didn't even bother if it was something tiny (raccoons) and not human (which is why he traveled to 1940s London and brought back the little gremlin child at all). 

Slowly, he reached out a single finger and brushed it against the stick of Gabriel's lollipop, registering its disappearance and then reappearance sometime during the Roman Empire. His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace. "Of course, Gabriel. I will keep my hands to myself from now on." With that he disappeared in a swift flutter of wings to deposit a certain, naked father near a certain, no-longer dormant volcano called Vesuvius.


	2. Meet the Humans

**A/N:** I decided that I'd better go ahead and commit myself to writing something (for once) so I actually wrote the second chapter already! I know it's going slow right now, but once I finish planning the next couple chapters out it should go faster, hopefully. Also most of the settings/cases will be based off actual episodes, so I can't wait to see if anyone picks up on them :) And don't worry, Dean and Sam will appear more soon. xx

* * *

Over the next few weeks or months—Castiel didn't know exactly because of his frequent time travel— he revoked almost all physical contact he had with the world. He continued to smite the people on his list, but he no longer spent any extra time hanging around to interact with the normal humans. He stopped sitting in coffee shops and diners to watch the world pass him by; he stopped affectionately scratching stray dogs behind the ears; and he most definitely stopped picking flowers. After the first few days, he no longer forgot not to touch anything and was, for the most part, accustomed to his solitary, lonely existence. 

When he'd received the command to smite someone in Chicago 2010, he'd thought it would just be a simple scare-and-touch. He arrived at the man's house prepared to send him to the 1800s; however when he got there, he was redirected to a pizza restaurant across the city. It was too little of a distance to bother using his grace and wing it there, so he had to walk. Any other angel could have just taken the subway, but it would be crammed with humans and Castiel did not want to risk an accidental touch. So he trudged the many miles in the chilly air, his trench coat flapping around him as sturdy winds blew through the city. It was unseasonal for this time of year, especially with the angry-looking storm clouds roiling overhead. The atmosphere was downright sinister. _Almost apocalyptic, _Castiel thought with morbid amusement. 

Arriving at the restaurant, he pushed open the door and the bell jingled to announce his presence. The smell hit him and he frowned, looking around at the tables with dead customers gathered around. Distastefully, he peered at a specific man and rolled him over to look at the face more directly. That was the one. 

Rolling his eyes, Castiel sighed. Now he was getting annoyed that his superiors often forgot to update his list when one died ahead of smiting schedule; this had to be the eighth time this season. He moved on to the next name on his list, which landed him in 2006 Indiana. 

~...~ 

Castiel was pissed. Boiling with the righteous fury of an angel. _Yet again, _he was not informed of the early demise of his assignments. This time it was two specific perpetrators of human sacrifice, and someone had arrived before him. 

He had been barely six hours late to smite them, considering they had been unexpectedly killed only the previous night. Upon entering the diner, he'd strode up to the weasely-looking man at the counter and demanded where his assignments were located, seeing as he had already searched their house and the surrounding town. 

The man was nervous, but defiant, and refused to tell Castiel where the couple was located. Castiel tilted his head, and the next thing the man knew, his face was being forcefully pressed against the ceiling. The people in the restaurant gasped and screamed, crowding against the glass door which was being held shut by Castiel—albeit not physically. A man held up to the ceiling and a door slammed shut with no one holding either of them simply terrified the occupants even further. They had come to the diner for a nice brunch in order to discuss what they should do after the previous night's totally-not-sacrificial events. 

"No one," Castiel said stonily, "is leaving until I get answers. _Where are Stacey and Harley Jorgeson?_" He waited for a long minute, during which the elders shuffled amongst themselves and hushedly debated whether to give this strange man answers. "Anyone?" he eventually asked, his rough voice akin to a sharply serrated blade. His blue eyes glinted dangerously, and the man above their heads groaned deeply as his ribs began to pop and fracture when the pressure on him increased against the ceiling. "I have half a mind to begin killing each of you until someone steps forward," he continued. "I am not patient, I am not merciful. So you'd best hurry." 

One of the townsfolk, a stoutly ageing man, let out a hoarse yell (a mistake really) and charged at him holding a cake knife he'd grabbed from a pie tin. Castiel flicked his hand at him, and the resounding crack of the man's neck caused the people to cry out again in fear and whimper against the unyielding glass. "I really did warn you," Castiel sighed. "I really tried. But you humans are just so unreasonable. Now, I am giving you a final chance—" 

"They were killed last night by a couple guys," someone finally blurted. "Now let us go. Please." 

Castiel shook his head and shrugged, lifting his hands in a _well what can I do? _gesture. "Why would I do that? All here had a part in the human sacrifices; and yes I do know about that. Oh." He looked over his shoulder as Ceiling Man thudded onto the floor, released by the angel's lack of attention. "I actually had something much more painful and…corrosive planned for him. No matter, there are still thirteen of you left." He smiled coldly before passing among them, who shoved at each other in order to get out of his way. They weren't deft enough, seeing as Castiel had already slammed his palm against three of their foreheads and they had collapsed to the ground screaming as their eyes burned out of their skulls.

He continued making his way through them, leaving heaps of bodies behind him until he reached the last man, who was cowering against the doorframe. "It is a shame your Norse gods are not here to protect you," he sneered, patting this man's cheek. The man's eyes started smoking as Castiel pushed open the diner door and strode out into the early sunlight. Castiel didn't feel any particular sense of remorse about disobeying his orders to smite, and smite only, the Jorgenson couple. The rest of them deserved it too; they had a part in the sacrifices, so they should die as well. 

He continued striding down the surprisingly empty main street, intending to go search for the couple's bodies in the woods. He was passing by a gas station, faintly observing the sleek black car filling up when a friendly call registered in his one-track mind. He looked to the side, focusing on a young man who was raising his hand in greeting. 

"Nice day isn't it?" 

What? Humans were strange, Castiel supposed. Why they found weather such a fascinating topic and their need to frequently ask him if he agreed that it was, indeed, a nice day was beyond him. "Yes," he replied bluntly, standing stone-still in the middle of the street. 

The young man's face turned slightly uncomfortable, and he leaned to rest his elbows against the car roof. "Um well, you stayin' here long?" 

"No. I am not, if I can find them." Why was this man insisting on drawing this out? Castiel was tempted to just knock him out and continue on his way. 

"Who're you looking for?" The leather-coated man continued his tiresome conversation with his unnecessary questions, which Castiel pointed out to him as such. Startled by the angel's bluntness, he finally gave up on the small talk. "Look, I just want to give you some advice: leave town as soon as you can. The people here aren't that friendly, and frankly, they're creepy as hell. No telling what they might do to you when you turn your back. You better just go. I can give you a ride if you want?" He actually hoped the stranger in the ridiculous coat didn't want a ride because he didn't want to spend however-long with a guy who had no sense of social etiquette (no matter that he could tell the color of his eyes in sunlight from twenty feet away. Blue, by the way) when he could be searching for his missing dad. 

Castiel actually snorted. "As if humans were ever a threat to me." He continued on his wrathful way, leaving behind a bewildered man and his mammoth companion who had just came out of the gas station asking why he looked like he'd gotten hit with a tennis racket. 

Castiel did eventually find the bodies in the wood, and crossed their names off. Then, he flew away and continued down the list. Surprisingly, that young man from the gas station kept popping up every so often around Castiel. Of course his physical appearance fluctuated because Castiel might encounter him in 2012 during one assignment and 2004 on another. But he always recognized the human; well, except for that first second time Castiel met him. That time it took the angel quite a bit to place when he had encountered the human on his scrambled timeline. 

Every time Castiel interacted with the human, it left him feeling more and more aggravated and unsettled. Several times the man and his companion had almost caught the angel smiting someone, which he would fake his way out by pretending to be human law enforcement investigating things. Other times he was just another customer in a diner, or motel, or school teacher who briefly interacted with the two in order to prevent them from meddling with his assignments. Twice or thrice more, the hunters, as Castiel found out what their roles were called, arrived before him and killed the names on his list. Those were the times he'd gone to management and demanded that they keep better tabs on the smitees. Despite their roles as minor annoyances in his work life, Castiel found the two humans fascinating enough not to put in a request for their "removal." No one could get him to admit it, but maybe this antisocial angel so used to being invisible actually _enjoyed _being seen once in a while. 

So other than these oddly recurring humans on Castiel's timeline, his so-called life continued as normal. Well, at least until the hunter needlessly saved his life and recognized him for once.


	3. Event Horizon

A/N: Thanks to everyone who favorited/followed/reviewed the story from last time! That was a huge motivator in getting me to continue writing :) Hopefully these chapters aren't very boring, but if they are please tell me and I'll try to include more action or something! Also sorry about this one's length, I kept trying to shorten it, but it felt too rushed without all the little filler bits. Oh, and things might get a little confusing in this chapter since Cas doesn't really pay attention to names or pronouns until the very end, but I tried to make it as clear as possible. Please review and let me know what you thought of this chapter! xx

* * *

_2011_

By Castiel's estimate, it had been two and a half of his years since he'd last seen the hunter and his friend. Halfway through his drought of human contact, he was considering asking management what had happened to the hunters, because he was curious and _absolutely _not slightly worried in the least that they might have been disposed of as a nuisance. However, his subconscious never found a legitimate reason to convince his logical self that it was necessary to track them down; besides, he didn't even know their names. At least they wouldn't meddle in his work again, wherever they were.

He was working an assignment in Rome when he received a top-priority order to go to 2011 Minnesota and avenge four victims of an ongoing hostage situation in a hospital. The 'angel radio' noted that it was top priority because the wrongdoer was recorded to die within 10 minutes of Castiel receiving the order. Upon confirmation to the higher-ups that he was in the same year and en route, Castiel abandoned his current assignment and merely had to flap across several weeks to reach Minnesota.

_Blink._

_Blink._

_Blink._

Upon opening his eyes, Castiel found himself in the deserted hospital. Apparently human authorities had evacuated everyone they could out of this wing, except for the hostages and their captor. He began to search rapidly through the extensive hospital wing, aware of the clock ticking down how much time he had to inflict righteous punishment. _09:12. Nine minutes twelve seconds. 552 seconds. Zero point one-five-two hours._

He would have to search each of the halls in the wing manually, since the space was too cramped and minute in all of space and time to apparate through the rooms. He estimated that he would have a substantial amount of time left after searching to prolong the human's demise.

Castiel was nearly at the end of the wing when—Five. There had just been a fifth victim, Castiel realized as he heard three rapid gunshots echo in the empty hospital. The shots had been fired from nearby, and rounding the corner into the last hallway, he saw a human standing above another unmoving figure sprawled on the linoleum floor. Castiel curled his lip. He considered humans who killed for pleasure vile and even more base than the rest of the species generally was. He advanced down the hallway, the long florescent lights audibly shutting off behind him and creating a mighty silhouette; his footsteps echoed heavily, alerting the upright human. Suddenly, the timer in his head clicked downwards several minutes. _00:02:30. Two minutes thirty seconds._

Even with the decreased time, Castiel would be truly pleased to end the life of this wretch and see all the future years of its life crumble away like dirt in the wind. He wanted to draw this out and send it to the brink of death with fear before throwing it to a miserable point in time. So he decided to "put on the best show ever" (as Gabriel would put it).

For a human looking at the avenging angel, they would see his face morphing grotesquely. Blunt fangs extended from his mouth, bared in a vicious snarl. His face flickered, snapping sideways, back and forth between his stony, menacing expression, and a creature with a gaping, yawning maw opened unnaturally wide. His eyes wavered, as if suddenly turning to static before they flashed out to utter nothingness, just two endless voids in his skull. His skin was a sickly pale greenish, like a bloated corpse after being in water. His neck twisted distortedly, his face still leering at the human. Projected shadows of his wings dragged wetly across the floor and walls like an oil slick seeping down the hall. The void of his wings seemed to absorb any light they touched, a contained event horizon of a black hole: all-consuming and inescapable.

Castiel was more than halfway down the long hall, nearly to the figure, and was beginning to become concerned. The human had not even moved. Was the human even scared? Was Castiel unable to get it up any more? Was he still a terrifying force of Heaven? Mostly though, he was confused. A human had simply never been not scared before, not in his experience. And upon even closer inspection, he saw that the human was completely clothed, head to toe, and mere slits for the eyes in the mask. It would be difficult to directly touch the skin, Castiel realized. _00:02:00. Two minutes._

Meanwhile the figure simply stood there, its hand containing a gun in a lax hold. The angel had come to a halt barely ten feet before and was staring, as if trying to decide on a course of action. Castiel took a step forward, arm outstretched—and a bullet embedded itself with a dull thud in his left breast.

This gave him a pause. Of irritation. He craned his neck down and looked at the bullet hole in his trench coat condescendingly before glaring at the human with a tilt to his head. There was a long moment as their eyes bored into each other's, and then Castiel lunged forward.

The angel batted away the figure's one free punching hand and struck its face repeatedly in his irritation to get to work. His fingers scrabbled at the fabric of the human's clothing, searching for any contact with skin, knocking the human down onto the floor with sufficient ease and pinning its body down. _00:01:43._ The human was still gripping the gun and fired shots at him, missing many, landing a few—enough to slow and distract. Castiel finally managed to snag his fingers on a seam and was about to rip off the article of clothing _00:01:25_ and dispose of this unfathomably imperturbable human in a boat in the middle of a tropical ocean _00:1:10 _when a final shot rang out and the human beneath him slumped to the floor. _00:00:00._

Castiel whipped his head to the side, shifting to get into a defensive position and extending his arm before him, fingers curving like talons. His eyes narrowed and his mouth was open, baring his now-again human-like teeth slightly. Whereas he had been straddling the human, he was now on a knee beside its body and ready to leap at the interloper and defend himself and what had been _his _prey. His vision pulsed slightly, not concentrating fully on the newcomer's face until the newcomer took several steps back and held up its hands—one still holding a gun—in placation.

Castiel's tunnel vision widened until he could recognize the figure before him as the human hunter he had encountered so many times before. "I…" he rasped gruffly, "was taking care of…it…" he gestured roughly at the body.

The human was older than when Castiel had first met him; his face was more lined and tired, though the stubble on his jaw might have contributed to that impression. However, the easy-goingness was not entirely gone as the human gave an easy smile. "Man, you looked like you were about to rip his clothing off. Was I interrupting you two?"

The hunter was met with the angel's glower. "Yes. You were. He was _mine." _Castiel rose up, seeming to expand and tower over the man, even though he was a few inches shorter.

The man snorted in surprise and affront. "I saved your life! The least you could be is appreciative, not be such a dick!" He shoved his gun back into the waistband of his jeans and glowered right back, his green eyes glinting in pissed-offness.

"That was not necessary! _I was handling it._" Castiel's voice was a gravelly roar, and frankly, he did not give a demon's soul if he attracted other humans by making a scene. This was it, the last time this meddling human got in his way and saw Castiel.

"Not from where I was standing."

Castiel bristled at that and shoved past the hunter, his trench coat swishing and revealing the body he had been obscuring. He was several feet beyond the man when he heard a choked intake of breath and the thud of someone dropping to the floor. Don't do it, Castiel, his inner angel on his shoulder chirped at him. Don't get involved.

Breathing a sigh, Castiel and turned and steeled himself to become involved. He saw the hunter kneeling on the floor hesitantly touching the body Castiel saw the evildoer standing over. The hunter removed their ear from the chest and rocked back on his heels, bracing his forehead on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, gripping his temples.

He flexed his jaw several times and strode back to the man. "What's wrong?" he asked gruffly. "Who was this to you?" So much for comfort.

The green-eyed man shook his head mutely, Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to compose the words lodged in his throat. Finally he managed, "He was my uncle. More like a dad. He was family." He cleared his throat, and Castiel realized what this was: grief. The tall, green-eyed man was grieving for a father. Or at the least, a father figure. He was unsure of the etiquette. Leave him be? Find his companion? Lord forbid—comfort him?

He moved forward slowly and crouched next to the men, and turned the body to him. Now Castiel could see the countenance of the body, and he was an older, grizzled man with a beard and a ball cap. Rough, but kindly enough, Castiel supposed. Briefly he reflected that it was a shame the man was taken from the living. He reached out and gave an experimental tap to the palm. Yes, definitely dead, or else the body would have disappeared. Castiel's touch only worked for the living. He decided that he might as well check the evildoer's body as well, and it turned out to be empty of life as well.

Returning to the live hunter he motioned uselessly, trying to find the words to help, or provide the peace angels were supposed to exude, for Father's Sake. "Um…" He coughed. "You should go. Where is your companion? He will be able to help you."

The man shook his head numbly. "No. No. I can't leave Bobby here. He never left me, can't leave him. Gotta burn the body…" he mumbled, pushing off his knees to stand up. He seemed shorter already, sagging with grief. "Bobby, Bobby, Bobby…"

"I insist," Castiel ordered. "I will take care of…Bobby's…body. It will be safe with me, I swear to you. I know how."

"You a hunter too?" Dean looked at him dully, taking in the trench coat and suit underneath. "Dun' look like one."

"…Yes. I am. The apparel was for an…assignment. A case." Castiel wet his mouth at the lies. What else was he supposed to say? "Now where is your companion? I will help you find him," he offered stuntedly.

The grieving, green-eyed man—Castiel could not stop noticing their color—shook his head. "No, I'll just text him and we'll meet at the bar 'round the corner. C'mon. You might as well come; we need to talk."

This is where Castiel should have declined and insisted the man go to the bar himself. But by now, Castiel felt he was in too deep and he didn't want to leave the man alone. Who knew what trouble his weak human self would get muddled up in? Well, that was his excuse anyway.

Either way, the hunter and the angel ended up at the bar twenty minutes later, after Castiel had deposited Bobby, er, Bobby's body in the back seat of the man's car, which he still recognized. For an angel with stunted social etiquette, even Castiel could understand how horrible it was to simply put the body in the car. But what else could he do with it? He had given his word to take care of the body.

But anyway, the two sat at the bar and Castiel realized the hunter seemed hell-bent on becoming intoxicated. The man had downed several tiny glasses full of tinted liquid, and was currently sliding several over to Castiel himself, who stared at them before downing them in rapid succession: firstly worried about breaching the propriety of being offered drinks; and secondly, marveling at the buzzing he began to feel in his fingertips.

Half an hour later, Castiel began to worry about the man's blood alcohol content and his inability to heal him should the man pass out. So he ordered the hunter to switch to a final beer. Against his wishes, he was offered a bottle of his own and he took it ruefully, swiping his thumb to catch the condensation.

Both of them sat in silence for a minute, letting the hustle and noise of the bar rush over them and fill the space. Castiel turned his head when he finally heard the man say, "Y'know, he was only there for a follow-up 'cause of his pneumonia? He'd been sick and he was finally getting better. That's why he was there in the first place. Bobby was."

The man paused to take a swig from the bottle, and Castiel's eyes darted to the mouth that wrapped itself around the glass. He swallowed and took a quick, awkward drink from his own, and let the man wet his lips to continue. "He was there when that freak decided to take a waiting room hostage…called police…called me…" He was slurring now. "I told 'im notta be a hero. Humans ain't nothing like a monster or demon. Sometimes I swear it's mo' dif'cult to kill them." He was tearing up and sniffling now as well. Castiel realized the man was what Gabriel would call 'an emotional drunk.' Perhaps that was unfair, he reflected. A father-figure had died, and that was a possible factor for the man sniffling beside him like a child with allergies. "Why're humans so fucked up, man? Why we so fucked up? I thought we're s'posed to be the ones with souls…" Castiel had no answer for the attractive, drunk, crying man because he often wondered that himself. After all, his list never ran short of names.

When they were mostly done with their beers, Castiel turned his head to see the man squinting at him. "Do I know you?" the man asked, his speech still slurring slightly.

The angel froze. "No. We have never met…" Officially, he added to himself, reassuring the angel on his mental shoulder that it wasn't _really _a lie.

"Nah, you're wroooong. We've met. Damn, I knew I'd seen those babe-blues before. I've seen you hanging around while I've been on cases. Always in the background, but I seeee yooooouuu." He pointed his beer bottle at Castiel. "Makes sense then, that you'd be in the life. Why you always show up at places where creepy shit happens. Why our paths cross so often."

"You are very drunk," Castiel stated, trying to get the man off this worrying trail of conversation. "We have never met before."

"Don't lie ta me!" the man growled. "I know when my gut instinct says so, I did so," he hiccupped, "met you. You don't even look a day older, huh." He extended his calloused hand. "Dean Winchester, not FBI, not CIA, not Homeland, not anything…Just me."

Castiel tilted his head slightly, but did not proffer his hand to reciprocate the handshake. He hesitated, however, before saying, "Castiel."

"What?"

"My name, it is Castiel. I am called Castiel." He wet his mouth again. Lord, he couldn't seem to stop doing it around this human.

A dopey smile spread across _Dean Winchester's _face. "Casssssstielllll. Casteel. Casssssteel. Castlllle. Cassss," he started slurring again and laughing to himself at his continuous mispronunciation. "Thass a name you got there, buddy, but no last name? Yeah, 'm so drunk." Dean's head drooped as he stood up and staggered.

Castiel's hands twitched on the bar counter, reflexively wanting to support Dean. "I told you you were drunk forty-three minutes and 6 seconds ago."

Dean shook his head, swaying. "That's what we gotta do as humans; gotta do something to get rid of the feelings." He fumbled in his coat pocket for a wallet and shakily set a few bills on the counter, accidentally tipping his phone out. "Damn it."

Castiel eyed Dean appraisingly. "I will get it. I do not think if you lean down, you will get up." He bent over and plucked the phone from the ground, noticing the lit screen cluttered with texts and missed calls and voice mails from 'Sammy.'

Dean half-smiled lopsidedly. "Thaaanks, Ca-aas." He clapped Castiel on the shoulder, not noticing the angel stand frozen for a brief moment.

"It seems someone is trying to reach you desperately." He unfroze after a second, gratefully realizing no bare skin had made contact. "Sammy?"

The grin stretched wider. "Sammy! My brother! What's he want?"

Surprisingly enough Castiel was fairly adept at current technology, having lived through the previous millennia and its inventions, as well as being one of the assigned 'specialists' to the 21st and 20th century. He poked a few messages, reading through the furious and frantic brother's messages and repeated unanswered calls. "He is worried about you and where you are."

His statement was waved away. "Sam's always a worry-warthog. I'll call him soon."

"Call him now, Dean." And my God, did Castiel want to say the name over and over. Having not known the man's name for so many years, it was like discovering a new language from four letters.

"You ever dealt with a pissy Sammy? No? Well I'm not gonna, not tonight. You do it, Cas." Dean sauntered towards the door, swaying precariously, and Cas nearly tipped over the barstool hurrying after the weird human.

Outside in the cooling night air, Castiel called Sam as Dean retched into the shrubbery.

"Fuck you, Dean!" was what he was met with when the other end picked up. "Where the fuck were you?! Where the fuck are you?! I had to walk back to the motel because that's where I thought you and Bobby'd be, but your car wasn't even in the damn lot! You could have the sense to let me know where you are, instead of wandering off, you douchebag!" Cas waited until 'Sammy' finished ranting, which was another thirty seconds.

"Hello, this is Castiel. Your brother is with me, and he is…very drunk."

"Oh Jesus Christ, I am so sorry!"

"No, I am Castiel. And your brother is throwing up outside of a bar."

After several more apologies and prompting Castiel to see what the bar was called, Sammy assured him he was on his way and if he could just wait with Dean a little longer?

Cas sat with Dean on the curb after he'd finished clearing his stomach contents and watched the sweat bead on his forehead under the streetlight. Dean swallowed thickly and tried to spit the taste of vomit from his mouth while wiping at his face.

"Your brother should be here soon," Cas finally offered. "He was relieved you are well."

Dean sighed heavily and passed his hand over the angle of his jaw. "God, I'm going to have to tell him about Bobby. He was like a father to both of us; I don't know what we're gonna do without him." His jaw clenched and he rested his head between his knees, breathing deeply to overcome the nausea and grief that was beginning to set back in.

Shifting awkwardly, Cas' trench coat rustled and he gingerly patted Dean on the back, briefly and wonderingly savoring the warmth that seeped through the jacket. "I am sorry about Robert. He seemed very important to you and Sam. I am sure he is in a better place, though."

"Yeah, how would you know that? Ain't no proof in this world," Dean scoffed.

Cas remained silent to that. He actually did know, or at least could find out for definite, that Robert Singer had made it to Heaven. Not that he could tell Dean. The two of them sat in complete silence after that, just letting their breaths fog in the night and looking at the stars.

Eventually Sam Winchester came jogging up, panting, and still pretty pissed. He gave a nod and a sincere thank you handshake to Cas before demanding Dean hand over the keys to the Impala. "Jerk."

"Yeah, yeah, bitch. I know I ain't driving tonight. Just, wait a sec, okay? Just stay here. Don't go into the Impala yet," Dean told him, shaking him gently by the shoulder. He looked back at the slightly shorter man next to him, dressed in the ridiculous trench coat and suit. What was he a college professor or something? A trench coat, really? He coughed awkwardly. "Listen, I'm sorry for going all drunk and needy on you, Cas. I swear I'm not usually like that. Well, I'm drunk a lot actually, but I'm not needy…and thanks for listening 'bout Bobby."

"It is fine, Dean," Cas assured him.

The taller man shrugged and ran his hand through his hair before holding it out for another handshake apprehensively. "Maybe we'll see you around then. You're not half-bad, we could tag team on a case if we ever run into you again." He crooked a dry grin.

Cas kept his arms by his sides, coat fluttering in the breeze and returned a nod and soft upturn of the mouth corners. "Perhaps, Dean." He watched the brothers walk to the car and stand outside for several minutes and watched Dean talk to Sam, probably telling him about Robert. Then the two Winchesters drove away and Cas remained in the same spot on the pavement until the taillights faded from view.

Upon checking in on 'angel radio' again, Castiel was met with several rebukes of his failure and conduct regarding his contact to Dean Winchester. Then he was given a new list of names that would keep him busy for several months yet. Oh well, the most Castiel could hope for was that one of his assignments would bring him in orbit of Dean Winchester, though he wouldn't count on it. But if he was so lucky enough, he wouldn't make the mistake of touching him again.


	4. Curiouser & Curiouser

A/N: Thank you to family-and-free-will and BookAddict67 for your kind reviews! :) In a twisted way, I'm glad Cas is coming off as creepy because I was struggling how to get this idea of Cas as a weeping angel from my head into writing. I actually did go back and watch a couple of the earlier seasons' really creepy cases to get some ideas. But as terrifying as I want Cas to be at times, I am really going to try characterizing him as close to canon as I can. There's a quote from Get Smart that I hope I'll be able to get his character to live up to: "Yes, they are bad guys, but that is what they do, not who they are." Anyways, thank you to everyone who has favorited/followed/reviewed and read this story! xx

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"Heya, Cassie!" a shorter, golden-haired man suddenly appeared in front of Castiel and swept an elaborate bow. "Salutations, my dear little bro."

Castiel froze and stopped short as Gabriel blocked his path. "The bow was unnecessary," he said, unable to refrain from commenting on the archangel's superfluous actions. His blue eyes flickered from meeting Gabriel's gaze to his ostentatious shirt buttons, too nervous to maintain eye contact, which he knew was now damning evidence enough of his deceit.

Gabe arched an eyebrow in sarcastic suspicion. Of course he knew what Castiel was up to, he'd known from the first instant Cas had begun to stray. He had just wanted to give his brother a head start on his not-so-surreptitious quest, like the great big bro he was. "Whatcha doing in these parts, huh?" He made sure that any accusatory words or tones stayed well out of his voice, he didn't want to spook the other angel. From many past experiences, he knew that if Castiel felt threatened, he would disappear and it would be truly difficult for even an archangel to find him then. So he stayed non-confrontational, even offering Cas a sticky, half-melted Dum-Dum from his own linty pockets.

Castiel ignored the candy and shifted uncomfortably. "An assignment. I had an assignment…and he ran…this way? I was going to fetch him." he shrugged his shoulders helplessly, at the mercy of his terrible fibbing skills.

Sigh. This was getting more out of hand than Gabe had expected. Castiel had never outright lied to him. Out of the past dozen-ish times he had caught Castiel out of his work area, Castiel had remained dumb and then flapped away after the questioning had become intense. Gabriel had informed his other big brothers, standing up to them for once, that Castiel was not to be punished until he had discovered what he was up to himself. Alone. No one else was to meddle. However, Raphael and the Up on High-ers warned him that if Cassie's transgressions continued, they would be forced to…permanently decommission him by transfiguring him into a granite effigy.

_"So you're gonna fucking stone him," Gabriel had supplied in layman's terms (though it sounds better in Enochian). He shot daggers at Michael and Raphael with his eyes. "You're gonna turn him into a damn statue just because he goes off course every once in a while? The kid's just curious. Leave him be, guys." He was trying not to fume and sound petulant, though Father knew Gabriel had always been somewhat the baby of the archangels._

_"We were charged with keeping order in this world, brother," Michael boomed menacingly. "Do not try to meddle with Heaven's intent."  
_

_"I would never dream of it, brother mine," Gabriel had sneered, and then huffed his way out of Heaven, and arrogantly strutted out of the gates. Just to, y'know, piss Michael off. What a pompous goat._

Of course Gabriel had almost instantly found out what Cas was up to, he wasn't blind to the fascination with humans. He had spent centuries on Earth after all, while his lazy-ass brothers were sitting pretty in Heaven. It made him more qualified than any of them to steer Castiel back onto the path of righteousness. Yes, he himself had dabbled with many a fast-living human female or male, or someone in-between. But he was an archangel, he was able to get away with that shit. Not so for Castiel.

Castiel stuttered through his response eventually. "I was looking for a human. He has been appearing on my timeline with surprising frequency and it is distracting."

"Oh yeah, I bet he was _very _distracting," Gabe winked, but the innuendo was lost on Cas.

"I was concerned why I have not seen him recently. For someone who reappears near me so often, I was worried that a timeline had become tangled and I wished to check that nothing is against the Intent of Heaven." Yes, if Castiel was Gabriel and he was telling this to himself, he would believe him. It sounded very plausible.

Gabriel eyed Cas. He _was _telling the truth about being concerned for the human, but it went beyond simple diligence about managing timelines. However, the archangel decided to let Castiel slide on his…_curiosity _and let him believe he was actually stealthy. "Good on you, then I guess. Keep on keepin' on…" He raised his hand in a mock salute, prepared to disappear. "Oh, and Cassie?" He paused. "Just so you know, the archangels _will _be keeping an eye on you." He raised an eyebrow in friendly-enough warning before snapping his fingers and disappearing to Father-knows-where.

The tension evaporated from Castiel's shoulders after Gabriel left. Sure, he was probably the nicest and most-easygoing of all his big brothers, but Castiel didn't relish anyone's nose poking around Castiel's business.

However, the transgressions he had recently been acquiring and being lectured about weren't for naught. During his extended stays among the time period, he was picking up on human mannerisms. In fact, he had even searched out hunters in order to understand how they performed their assignments, or rather, their cases.

On these excursions he had been losing work time, and apparently management was starting to notice and crack down.

Castiel would not admit to himself that the reason he flitted between days after every assignment was in hopes of meeting Dean Winchester again. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of the green-eyed human since the incident at the hospital. He had explored the times before and after they had properly met, but still no Dean. Not that he was actively looking of course.

For now, he decided to prolong his stay in 2012 and wander around various small towns in South Dakota. He was ambling down the main street of one such small town, enjoying the light breeze and sunlight, when he passed a small diner. Shortly after passing the diner, he heard the diner's door's bell jangle as a patron hurried out of the bar.

"Cas?" a voice called breathlessly after him.

Castiel paused, his trench coat fluttering in the soft wind, and tilted his head to look at the source of the voice. An unfamiliar expression flitted across his face, and he realized it was a small smile. "Dean."

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**Another A/N:** Arrrgh! I'm sorry, this totally was just a filler chapter! I didn't want to leave you guys with nothing for the week because I have a huge essay due tomorrow, but then...this horrendous thing popped out of my brain. It was supposed to be just a super short drabble type thing, but obviously it got away from me. Hopefully my workload is light on Wednesday so I can actually write something worthwhile :) I'll make sure to throw in some hunting action and maybe a little Destiel flirtation since you guys are so good to read this. Anyways, I hope the Gabriel snark was enough to make up for this chapter lol


	5. Mister Death's blueeyed boy

**A/N:** Alright, so I think I'm finally getting into the hang of this. Just a little warning for the chapter ahead: there's some action with beheading and a little blood, so if you're squeamish about any of that, read with care. I kept descriptions brief though, so I don't think it's particularly gory. Also, there's some language, so there's that. Also-also, the chapter title is from the poem "Buffalo Bill's" by e.e. cummings. Thanks for reading! xx

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For the past year, Dean Winchester entertained the notion that he was going crazy. He would see tan trench coats in the corner of his eye, but when he whipped around no one was ever there. And out of nowhere, he suddenly had a thing for blue eyes, seeing as most of his recent hook-ups were, in fact, blue of the eye color. Except they were all wrong. The bartender's eyes had too much green; the doctor's were too light; and the weight trainer's? Hers looked like sleet. Nothing matched those godforsaken blue eyes that had been haunting him for months. Frankly, it was ridiculous. He's talked to the guy, what, once? And then proceeded to get drunk and throw up in front of him. So yeah, it wasn't like this thing they might have had could have gone anywhere. He was a hunter, for God's sake. Relationships never seemed to turn out well for any of their kind. Even if Castiel was a hunter too.

God, he was acting like such a romantic. He would catch himself daydreaming about how those goddamned blue eyes looked in the bar light and tell himself it was just a case of really bad beer (actually vodka) goggles. Just a drunken thought, a drunken wish.

But now that he was sitting across from Castiel—Cas—in a vintage diner, he could definitely tell that there had never been any vodka goggles on him that night.

Cas awkwardly scooted and squelched his way across the vinyl upholstery. Dean waited for the man to be comfortable, then offered him Sam's basket of fries. "Want some?" The owner of the fries glared and raised a bitchy eyebrow at Dean.

Castiel looked at the fries, then up at Dean and Sam. "I have no money."

"Nah man, it's fine. He was done—ow." Dean returned a glare to Sam after receiving a sharp kick to his ankle. He returned the fries basket to the middle of the table in case Cas decided he wanted some. He folded his hands and leaned back in his seat, trying to get his first good look at this strange guy. "So…we haven't seen you for a while. Not since the hospital, thanks again for that, by the way." His face sobered and hardened for a brief moment before returning to its neutral expression.

Cas nodded slowly. "Yes…I remember. I have been busy recently," he trailed off and glanced at the brother, Sam he recalled, and saw a hostile expression hid under one of polite friendliness. He was not sure what he had done to offend the other Winchester, but perhaps Sam would voice his irritation soon so that it could be put to rest.

Dean didn't notice Sam's expression, more absorbed in maintaining a conversation with Mr. Blue Eyes. "Sam and I have been really busy lately too. It seems like all the Big Bads decided to come out of hibernation at once," he snorted. "It's been a hell of a year: ghosts, wendigos, rampant serial killers, vampires… In fact that's why we're in town; we tracked a vamp nest to a barn nearby."

Cas nodded vigorously once more. "Yes, that is why I am here as well. Vampires, many vampires."

Dean brightened considerably. "Hey, do you wanna work together? We'd have a higher chance of surviving if we team up."

Sam elbowed him in the side and gave him a look. "Dean? Can we talk alone for a sec?" He glanced at Cas and jerked his head in his direction.

"Now?"

"Right now," he confirmed.

Dean sighed and pushed Sam out of the booth and followed his brother to a couple feet away. He gave Cas a little wave before leaning his head in towards Sam. "What?" he hissed.

"Dean, you never want to team up with other hunters. Especially with hunters we don't know." Sam gestured towards Castiel. "What is with you and this guy? You've been talking about him all year." He stared at Dean as if he'd never seen his brother before.

Dean looked up at his brother in disbelief. "Sam, he was there when Bobby died, and he killed the guy who did it; don't we owe him anything?"

Sam shook his head adamantly. "Nope, nothing. Let's ditch him." He took hold of Dean's sleeve and took a mammoth step towards the door of the diner. "We can take care of the vamp nest on our own."

Meanwhile Dean yanked his coat sleeve out of his hand. "Dude what the hell?"

The taller brother glanced around before turning his head so Castiel couldn't see his mouth. "This guy's bad news; we won't end up in anything but trouble if we stay around him. Dean please, let's go." Sam's voice was low and urgent as he put his hand on Dean's back and tried to steer him out the door.

Castiel watched the brothers argue about him (yes, neither Sam nor Dean were subtle speakers. It was an absolute wonder that no other patrons heard them loudly conversing about vampires in a crowded diner.) He twiddled his hands briefly before reaching out to grab one long, greasy fry from the basket Dean offered. He chewed the soft and oblong potato thoughtfully, letting out a hum of approval, and reached to grab another one.

When Sam and Dean returned to the table, they found two empty fries baskets and a surprised, yet pleased Cas. While Sam pissily flagged down a waiter to get another order, Cas smiled beatifically. "Those make me very happy. Normally I cannot eat without much concentration."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "I'll say those do make you happy, you ate two baskets' worth in under three minutes. So anyways, Cas, do you wanna help us take out that nest?"

The angel tilted his head in consideration. "I suppose so, yes. I have nowhere to be." The latter wasn't necessarily true: he actually had anywhen and everywhere to be at that moment. His list was quite literally, a mile long. No matter, he could deal with his superiors and consequences later, since he also technically had an assignment in the area. While Dean briefed him on plan and the weapons at their disposal, Cas tried to ignore Sam's hostile stare. The three of them decided to head out within the hour to make the most of the afternoon sunlight.

...

They left the Impala about a quarter mile from the barn and continued the rest of the way on foot. While arming themselves from the Impala's trunk arsenal, Cas was forced to accept a machete-like sword since he had no way to explain to the brothers such a weapon was unnecessary for him.

They approached the barn rapidly but silently, intent on listening for any movement within. They were counting on the daylight for the vampires to be asleep, as well as to disorient them when all hell would break loose. Dean motioned for Sam to circle around the barn and check for any other entrances and for Cas to stay with him as they cased the front door. The hunter looked for a crack between the boards to look inside and see what they were up against. It was difficult lighting, but he could make out at least seven figures sprawled around the fairly spacious building. The barn was abandoned as far as he could tell, so he was hoping that there wouldn't be too much sharp farm equipment to fight around.

While Cas waited beside Dean, he realized he would have to stay out of sight of the brothers in order to be most functional. Castiel had enough experience fighting with weapons, but while he was fighting a supernaturally fast human-like creature, he preferred to get down and dirty with it. A weapon would merely be a slower extension of his arm. Burning beings from the inside out, snapping necks, and beheading was more of his forte in battle. As an avenging angel, killing was not strange for him. There was blood on his hands from much more than one occasion.

The angel did not doubt the human's ability to fight for himself (much), but he still wanted to keep an eye on Dean just in case. To Castiel, protecting Dean Winchester had just become his own self-given assignment. This would make the mission significantly more difficult since he not only had to hide from Dean, but also protect him.

Sam had finally circled around and was motioning to Dean that there were two back doors: one for the lower level, and another leading upstairs.

The three of them looked amongst themselves and tried to silently decide who was going where and with whom. Sam didn't want Dean to be alone with Cas. Cas did not want to leave Dean. Dean trusted Sam, but didn't want him to go in alone, but he also didn't want to send an untested hunter in solo either. Eventually they decided Sam would take the back upstairs, and Dean and Cas would enter through the front door, since they predicted most of the vamps would be sleeping close by anyway, giving Sam an easier time of it. Once the plan was made, they fanned out quickly.

Dean cracked open the barn door, just enough for him and Cas to slip through. The human had to pause for his eyes to adjust to the dark, but the angel was immediately able to move about the barn with ease. They waited until they saw the thin strip of light flicker from upstairs, and then attacked.

Dean had sliced down on a sleeping vampire's neck, but unfortunately either his eyesight or the blade was dull and it only made it _most _of the way through. "Aw, damn," Dean groaned as the vampire scrambled up, howling in pain. He lunged for the handle sticking out of its neck, but it snarled at him and stayed out of his reach as best as it could. "Cas! Get the door and open it wide! It's time to Lion King these assholes!" He hoped Cas was managing himself alright and would soon be able to bring the advantage on their side. Now that he was thinking about it, perhaps opening the barn doors wide was the first best thing he could have done.

Thankfully, Cas was able to reach the barn door in the melee and threw it open, letting bright sunlight stream in. With his back turned, a vampire had taken the opportunity to run at him from behind. Unfortunately for it, Cas simply whirled around and lifted its head right off his shoulders with a sharp twist. He began making his way through the rest of the barn and found that there were many more vampires than Dean had estimated, which was surprising. They were pressed against the barn walls hissing furiously and trying to stay away from the scorching sunlight that corned them. The angel found that he had no problem tossing aside the machete and smiting and beheading vampires by the droves. It was a workout for him, who'd been used to the many centuries of quiet and singular humans since he'd last been called into battle.

When Cas had thrown open the barn doors, Dean's vampire was stunned enough that he backed it against a support beam and pushed the blade through the rest of its neck. He was looking for his next victim when he heard Sam's grunts and calls for assistance from the loft above. He looked around wildly for stairs, a ladder, anything that would take him upstairs. "Cas?" he yelled as he spotted one and began running towards it. "Can you hold the first floor?" He didn't wait for an affirmation, however, even as he began climbing the ladder with his blade in hand. Upstairs was absolute hell. Dean couldn't see Sam anywhere in the roiling mess of vampires. He began hacking his way through them efficiently, decapitating some, incapacitating others.

Meanwhile Sam was grappling with a vamp, trying to keep its stinking teeth from sinking into his neck while he also grabbed around for the machete. He froze when abruptly, and without him doing anything, the vamp's head rolled off its shoulders and onto Sam, before landing on the ground. He looked up in surprise to see what had taken it down, but he just glimpsed the back of a tan trench coat before it disappeared between two vampires. _What the hell? _He thought as he scrambled up and jumped back into the fight with his machete.

Dean felt something, rather some_one,_ hover behind his back. In the corner of his eye he saw Cas' tan arm slicing and dicing away. "What the fuck are you doing up here?" he yelled back. "What about the vamps downstairs?"

Castiel grunted as he swung at a vampire, blade in hand. Weapons be _damned. _"I took care of them," he snapped back and drove the blade through its neck.

"What are you, some god?" Dean decapitated another vampire in disbelief, resisting the urge to turn around and gawp.

Castiel huffed in amusement. "Not a god. But something like that, yes." Bounce, bounce, bounce...

Realizing they were quickly losing the fight, vampires began abandoning the loft, leaping straight off the side and into the sunlight. No matter the pain the light caused them, they were more intent on getting away from whatever fury was mowing them down like a lawn.

Finally, finally, finally, there were no evil bloodsuckers of the night left. Alive, that is. Dean was hunched over, leaning heavily on his long swordy thing and trying to catch his breath. Sam was examining the large pile of bodies Castiel had left downstairs and was trying to fathom how that had even happened. Cas just stood there placidly with blood spattered across his face and clothing and let his arms hang by his sides.

"Goddamn, Cas, you look like hell," Dean wheezed from beside him.

The angel looked sharply at him, about to chastise the blasphemy before remembering himself. "Hm."

"Dude, how did you even fight in that get up? It's very a la tax accountant meets chainsaw killer."

Cas blinked at him with those _goddamn blue _eyes. "It was no hindrance to me, I assure you."

Dean huffed. "I can see that, sure as hell," he remarked, gesturing around him. "Damn, I want to keep you."

The two of them made their way down to Sam. "We should burn the bodies," Sam said. "Let's start putting them in a pile." They nodded in agreement and dispersed to begin the lengthy task of lugging back bodies and body parts into a pile outside the barn.

As the three men stood in front of the bonfire, the two hunters warmed their hand over it as the air around them began to cool while the sun set. Eventually Dean threw a cocky grin to his brother. "See, I told you he would be helpful!" He clapped Cas on the shoulder. "Have you ever had an easier takedown?!" he gloated.

Sam groaned. "Well damn, Dean. At the least we were unprepared for how many friggin' vampires were in there!" He threw him a glare, as well as Cas.

"But that's why we had _him,_" Dean insisted. "He was as hard to kill as a Jefferson Starship!"

Cas smiled slightly at Dean's praise, however, Sam's comments and attitude toward him still stung.

Eventually the fire died down and they shoveled dirt into the hole. They rested on their shovels briefly before they began walking tiredly back to the Impala. "Hey Cas?" Dean yawned. "Do you wanna change of clothes? I probably have some in my duffel that would fit you." He tossed his weapons carelessly into the trunk, while Sam put his away neatly as well as Dean's.

"I am fine Dean," Cas replied with his gravelly voice. "I thank you for your concern."

Dean shrugged. "You sure you wanna stay inside that mess of vamp blood? But if I'm given you a ride back into town, that coat comes off and you're spreading a towel over the upholstery," he warned.

"I will not require transportation. This is where I depart from your company." Cas began to distance himself from Dean, unwilling to leave, but also unable to stay. It would simply be easier if he pretended as if this were a mere assignment and left.

"Cas, you sure? This is the middle of nowhere," Dean gesticulated around him, his forehead creasing in confusion.

Sam interrupted his brother. "Alright, that's cool. I guess we might see you around then. Thanks for your help man," he offered his hand to Castiel, but the angel stared at it, then back into his brown eyes. Was it his imagination or was there a slightly cold and wary look in his eyes? Either way, Cas kept his arms to his sides and ignored Dean's offered handshake as well.

"Come on, at least I can be assured you didn't get ambushed on the way back by another vampire," Dean tried to insist once more.

"Nevertheless," Castiel replied firmly.

"He'll be fine, Dean." Sam nodded at Cas before opening the Impala door and getting inside, waiting impatiently.

The hunter shot a bemused look at Sam, but then shrugged. "Alrighty then." He licked his lips nervously. "Get in touch, Cas, ok? I don't know if you have many friends in this community, but it's always good to have someone in your corner. And I'm in your corner. Do you need my cell number or something?" He stuck his hands in his jacket pocketes, patting around for a pen and a slip of paper.

Cas felt a warm buzz in his chest. Had Dean Winchester implied they were friends now? He swallowed a smile and tried to remind himself to be detached. "There is no need. I will be able to find you wherever you are."

Dean nodded slowly, his eyebrows raised. "Okaaaay…I'll just ignore the creepiness in the statement and take your word for it." He threw the blue-eyed man an easy, charming grin. "See you around Cas." He climbed into the Impala and started the engine with a purr. He gave a final, half-hearted wave to the figure in his headlights before backing up and driving away into the twilight.

Castiel remained there for a bit longer, considering the activities and transgressions he had just committed with Dean Winchester. In the end, his contemplation yielded no regrets about his actions and he set off to find that assignment. He predicted it would be a gleeful sentence to execute. The Black Death? The Crusades? Perhaps the midst of the French Revolution? There were so many _options. _Someone who had killed a child in a hit-and-run deserved no less, after all.

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**A/N: **Hmm, whatever is going on with Sam and Cas? It will all be revealed in the end-if I ever get that far, that is. ;)


	6. Near, Far, Wherever You Are

**A/N:** Ugh...So I _thought_ this chapter would be posted on Wednesday since I'd written it during math class on _Monday_. Yay for math class writing! But then I was reviewing it on Tuesday and realized I wanted to do something a little more before **total annihilation**. Just kidding- kinda. Anyway, so I decided to write a Whole! Bunch! More! for you guys. So enjoy this chapter that's full to the brim of soulful eye contact and homoerotic subtext (buttsex?), but with no meaningful plot exposition! Well, maybe there's a little character development- for Destiel's sake -but mostly I was just trying to give Dean and Cas some time together before I set their lives on fire. Like gooosh I want to write several more chapters of Dean and Cas just chilling and doing their thang, but I thought that would get boring real fast 'cause all of us just want this to get to the good part already, right? Sorry, mini noob!writer rant.  
What do you guys think, would you be willing to read a couple thousand words of Destiel subtext-thats-not-really-subtext-its-so-obvious even if I pulled it out of my ass? Hm idk I just want to make sure their friendship/romantic subtext is really well developed before I send it all to hell. Siiigh. _Anywho_, please enjoy and review! (You have no idea how giddy I feel when I get that little email notification. Plus it gives me a lot more motivation to write. _**Hint.**_) There's also more notes at the end of the chapter :) And yes, this chapter's title is totally a crack reference to that Titanic song xx

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Eventually, Cas used his grace to mojo all the vampire blood away—once he'd gotten his kick out of looking like a bloody zombie in front of his assignments. There had been several gratifying experiences where he had scared the wits out of humans.

For the most part, Castiel kept on the straight and narrow. He finished his assignments efficiently, yet with the proper amount of terror. Even Gabriel noticed that Castiel was accomplishing his assignments faster than usual, but since he didn't have any proof (moreover, he didn't want to _find _any) that the lesser angel was breaking any laws, Gabe had to leave him alone.

The reason for Castiel's increased productivity? Dean. After their joint hunt of the vampire nest, he began finishing each of his assignments rapidly in order to join in on more hunts with the two brothers. Dean had quickly warmed up to his presence and was trying his damned hardest to introduce Cas to a life of alcohol dependency, dragging him to a bar after every hunt. However, he quickly learned that Castiel could hold his liquor and was often drunk under the table by the angel. With this lesson in mind, and several well-deserved hangovers, he began challenging other bar-goers to out-drink Cas, in order to help the trench coated hunter make some (unnecessary) money on the side.

While Cas never became inebriated, Dean began to notice the other man's guard would drop and he would be a little tipsy. On these occasions, Dean tried to ask about the other's life and family, but Cas would quickly clam up and the giddiness would wear off. So Dean settled for telling jokes and talking about random things, encouraging the angel to be more talkative that his usual, stoic self.

On hunts, Cas became _Castiel _in Dean's mind; someone fearsome and with the fighting skills of a god. Dean might also be afraid (not that he'd admit it) of this Castiel, would he not see the shine of warmth in those impossibly blue eyes or feel the protective gaze on his back during hunts.

Dean was tactile by nature. He noticed that Cas would shy away and freeze from his touch, so tried to restrain himself. Sometimes he would forget himself and pat Cas on the back, whereupon he would immediately step away in apology and resolve again to keep his apparently unwanted touches to himself. Usually Dean never made such concessions or gave such an avid attention to make sure another hunter was comfortable, but he did so for Cas. In short, he had become surprisingly friendly and close to someone outside his family.

As for Cas? Cas was happy. Never before had he experienced this depth of companionship, not even with his angelic brothers and sisters and those in-between. The angel was well aware that his siblings considered him to be doing the "dirty work" for Heaven. As far as they were concerned, Castiel and his ilk were Heaven's hitmen. Or perhaps, as Cas thought Dean would phrase it: the bouncers to Heaven's exclusive club. He no longer minded the isolation of his job as much as he used to. Why should he, when Dean willing gave him the friendly touches his own family denied him? So he allowed himself the luxury of being around Dean.

When the angel's assignments took him to the years before he and Dean met, Cas would follow him on hunts, unseen and unheard. It was a protective gesture on Castiel's part, some hidden and forgotten genetic code in his race, an instinct to protect those under his charge. Without either of the brothers' knowledge, he would assist in killing the monster; or at the least he would watch their backs. But no matter when in the world he was, Cas would always prefer his place by Dean Winchester's side as guardian.

As of yet, no superiors had noticed the swift and subtle change in Castiel's alliances.

Sam Winchester, though, _had _noticed Dean's. "Castiel did this, Castiel did that, Castiel does this that way…" Holy hell, it never ended. As much as he wanted his brother to be happy, he did not want it at the expense of Castiel staying around. And so he continued his endeavor to drive the trench coated hunter away, for whatever his personal motivations were. Unfortunately for the younger Winchester, Castiel did not pick up on hints, nor did he seem to grasp any rudeness shown in his direction. All Sam could do was watch as his brother and the strange man became closer. His mind was most at peace when Castiel was absent for a long period of time; although it made Dean irritable and uneasy, Sam would gratefully deal with it. But when they randomly encountered the other man on hunts, he would feel his blood pressure and anxiety skyrocket because as much as he wanted to keep Dean and Castiel separate, his brother was as close to a rebellious teen as a grown man could get. He stayed home at the hotel most nights, playing the role of disapproving parent when Cas had to carry/drag/drive Dean home from the strip clubs, bars, and the like.

"Cas! It's been forever since we've seen you!" Dean strode forward and clasped him by the shoulders, giving him and affectionate shake.

Castiel considered this. "How long has it been, Dean?"

Dean half-turned toward Sam. "God, how long? …Like two, two and a half years?"

So that was how long it had been for Dean. Castiel was not subject to the passage of normal time, what with his job description and all. At his estimate, it had only been two months since Cas was last with Dean; they had been on the trail of a wendigo. Apparently for Dean it had been much longer. "What has happened in my absence?"

Dean shrugged noncommittally. "There was a pretty bad hunt a couple months back with a werewolf, and I was bedridden for weeks after that. This is actually my first hunt back."

Cas' brow furrowed in concern. "How badly were you injured?"

He tried to play it off lightly. "It wasn't _that _serious. Just a couple of broken ribs, punctured lung, concussion…to name a few." Dean shrugged again offhandedly, uncomfortable with the blue gaze pinning the lie in his body language.

"You should have been more careful."

"You should have called me and been there," the response came quickly, almost an angry retort to Castiel's statement. The hunter cleared his throat and gave a short smile, trying to turn it into a joke, but both men heard the hurt in his voice and the unspoken _Where were you? _underneath.

Castiel continued to hold Dean's gaze, choosing to ignore the breach of personal space as he stepped closer. "I will be there next time," he offered with quiet intensity, voice rough with apology.

Dean nodded tensely, but his face softened. "I'll expect to see you then Cas."

And the next time, Cas was there in 2013 with Dean on that werewolf hunt and he saw the future morph into one where Dean had never been injured; where Dean's trust increased in him even more, since Cas had never let him down.

Castiel's duties began to get more and more neglected as he sought to spend more time with Dean. But lately as he was scanning his list, he began to notice that more and more names were associated with minor crimes. Actions Heaven had never taken notice or offense to before suddenly became grounds for temporal displacement. Humans who had previously gone to dens of inequity without punishment were suddenly now on Castiel's hit list. Others who skipped Sunday morning church appeared also. Mothers who stole food to feed their starving families; adolescents who lied to their parents about where they had spent the night; humans of other religions were all on his list. These committers of various transgressions were beginning to outnumber those Castiel felt truly deserved punishment. It made him uneasy and hesitant to continue smiting, and he wished he could ignore the heavy, pressing duties of his time-sensitive job.

While he did not stop punishing humans entirely, he began thinning the list and placing priority on those with the more severe crimes. Which he was not, in fact, supposed to do. Top to bottom, that was the rule. Heaven's rule. Heaven's law. And breaking that law was going to get him in for a universe of trouble and pain.

* * *

**A/N: **Still love me? So since I replaced the original chapter I'd written with what you've just read, expect chapter 7 tomorrow or Sunday-ish since most of the writing's all done. It'll probably be pretty short, maybe the same length as this chapter. Maybe not, perchance inspiration strikes me. This chapter I'm speaking of? Oh I've simply been _waiting _to drop this. I shiver with anticipation. So yes: next chapter = probably this weekend. Also, thank you again to BookAddict67 and deamon-of-light for reviewing! Aghh those kept me happy all week! And in response to deamon-of-light's question 'Can Cas jump to same point in time twice?": I present to you this hella condensed explanation.

Oh lordy you have no idea how many Wikipedia articles on temporal paradoxes I went through in order to give you an answer. I'll provide the titles (i'd provide links but I don't know how?) I based my _extremely _rudimentary explanation upon: wiki/Temporal_paradox (See bottom of article on "Summerville's Timeline Theory") and wiki/Predestination_paradox . Initially I was hoping to think of a really simple answer, and then I realized: this is time we're dealing with, who the heck am I kidding? Nothing is simple. So imagine a perfectly smooth rectangle object that is solid the entire way through. That's the universe. Now imagine a sphere that is fairly small compared to this rectangular object. This sphere is Cas. So just picture him as a completely unattached sphere in relation to the box. When he time travels to find his "assignments," he is taking his _single _corporeal form and going to a different spot on the box. Cas is, essentially, his own little universe. His timeline is so messed up that it's just a big ball of timey-wimey…stuff. Technically in the box's universe, he doesn't exist: he's just hitching a ride. In short: yes, Cas can return to the same point in time more than once because he doesn't _technically _exist simultaneously with any of his past or future selves. Any actions that will cause a difference in the future are supposed/predestined to happen and will simultaneously affect the future.

I hope you all appreciate how much I abbreviated this explanation. Initially it was a good 700+ words whereupon I rambled and expanded on exactly how Cas' job works which isn't entirely necessary right now, so it was cut.

ANYWAYS. I will see you guys in a day or two!


	7. Quiero que siga asi, tu alma pegada a mi

_**EDIT (4/20):** Well shit. So I just found the piece of paper I wrote a really important scene on that will be the base for a little vital plot thing Imma have going on later. So if you're a lovely reader reading in real-time, would you be a sweetie and help correct my blunder by peeking at the last paragraph of the previous chapter 6 (Near, far, Wherever You Are)? I swear it's important for later. I might have been able to insert it in a later chapter, but you know how this story gets away from me... I didn't really want to take the chance, so there. Thanks a bunch ^.^ (ugh I'm so dumb! Don't look at me!)_

**A/N:** The title is from the song 'Te he echado de menos' (I Have Missed You) by Pablo Alboran and it means "I want your soul to remain like this, stuck to me." Well, it roughly means that anyway. Sorry I couldn't find a better chapter title :/ it seemed symbolic at the time. Either way it's a great song and it'll totally apply to Dean and Cas' relationship sooner or later.  
I screwed myself over when I said this next chapter was already mostly written. Because as soon as I sat down to review it a final time on Saturday, I immediately decided some things had to go, many things had to be added in, and everything had to be changed entirely. I'm having a lot of issues with my creativity because lately it's been like: _It's the middle of second period. Write this short idea down for later. Just kidding, now it's sixth period and you've filled six pages front and back. _**OR** _it's 1 AM. Write. And what you write isn't even going to __**be **__in the next chapter. Nope, this is for ten chapters from now. Mwahahaha I own you, puny writer._ So yeah, that's what's been going on for me. What about you guys? Did you have a good Easter (if you celebrate it) or weekend (if you don't)? Enjoyyy!

* * *

Cas stood in front of the abandoned structure for several minutes, debating whether to even go in at all. If he went in there were two options he could choose from. The first was simple: remain invisible, and help if absolutely necessary. Option two was more risky: pretend to be who Dean thought he was, Castiel the hunter. He would be walking the razor's edge by continuing to make this ridiculous contact and relationship with the human. It was unreasonable, and it went against Heavenly conduct. Gabriel had warned him to stop messing around because while that archangel didn't care as much for with whom Castiel dallied, the others did care a lot and he wouldn't be able to hold them back when they found out. _When._

He could not decide and rapidly switched from one plan to another, reconsidering, and re-reconsidering. He didn't particularly want to experience whatever punishment his superiors had planned for him, but counter to that, Dean was a magnet for him. He was the one constant in Castiel's universe, and he didn't want to give up the one familiar thing he'd ever had. From another point of view, he made an odd figure standing in front of the house, flickering in and of sight, looking like the gray static of old televisions. Of course though, there was no one else to see.

It was a lovely evening in early 2013, so of course Sam and Dean decided to spend it checking out a rickety old house on the edge of town. All previous owners were driven away fairly soon after purchasing it, claiming there was a violent spirit in the house that tried to kill them (and apparently it had succeeded with a few). When they arrived there, they left the Impala parked in front of the old-school style wraparound porch and began doing EMF readings.

After going through the whole perimeter and interior, they met up in the foyer again and nodded to each other. Yup, ghosts. Yup, plural. So to sum it up: nice warm evening, beer waiting in the car, and a house filled to the brim with violent ghosts. _De-_lightful.

The brothers were casing the first floor, iron fireplace pokers in hand, when Dean signaled for Sam to stop for a sec. "Do you hear anything?" he murmured, clutching the poker.

Sam glanced around warily. "I don't think so. Did you?"

Just then Dean jerked around and swung the poker viciously, narrowly missing Sam—who noticed that Dean was jabbing at thin air.

"There, there I felt it! A breath down the side of my face!" Dean prowled around the room, his green eyes glinting predatorily in the dimming light. He swung the poker around him again. "I feel like something's watching me, but I don't know where from." His jaw clenched, clearly uncomfortable with having the bottom hand against anything supernatural.

Sam looked at his brother as if he were crazy. "I don't see anything, Dean. You sure about this?" He glanced around again, slightly more nervous.

"I'm sure," the other hunter growled, and he stalked out of the room and began slowly climbing the rickety staircase while Sam followed hesitantly.

Cas held his breath, trying to stand silent and still. He had not meant to startle Dean, but the floorboards in the old house were very creaky. All he wanted was to scope out the house without Dean or Sam seeing him, just in case his secret angelic assistance was needed. Plus, he was having a hard time shaking off the breathing, a habit he picked up from Dean. Gabriel had mentioned it on one of his brief check-ins. Come to think of it, Cas had picked up a lot of bad habits from Dean; the least of which were: breathing, talking to oneself, smiling—oh, and swearing. The first time Castiel had uttered a mild profanity in front of his superior, they nearly had a coronary, or an angel's version of one, so like a grace attack. That had gotten him reprimanded severely. Heavenly avenging angels weren't supposed to say "asshat" when referring to _ass_ignments.

Cas snapped out of his thoughts when a heavy thud resounded through the ceiling above him. He rushed upstairs in a flurry of wings, appearing in time to see the older Winchester be flung through a wall. Castiel's vision bled red momentarily as he searched the room for the ghost. He found it immediately; an angel's senses were much more sensitive to detecting spiritual anomalies than a human's.

…Take It Back Now Y'all (Rewind)…

Dean didn't mention it to his brother, but he didn't feel the stare leave his back until he went upstairs, though he swore the presence was still lingering in the house. He tried to shake off the strange and creeped-out feeling that settled in his gut. He couldn't tell if the presence seemed malicious or benign or what; all he knew was that an unknown something—_one?—_was watching him. He tried to focus on searching the rooms rather than the uneasiness, hoisting the poker over his shoulder like a baseball bat.

Then Sam's string of curses caused him to whirl around just as his brother was hurled across the room and the floor with a solid thud. Dean winced in sympathy, feeling the empathic burn of getting the breath knocked out of his lungs. He couldn't wait to see if Sam was getting up while he hit around blinding with the poker, trying to track the vague distortion that was the ghost, like looking through a glass bottle.

"Goddammit," Dean swore. Okay, it was totally unfair that ghosts could be invisible _and _psychopathic killers from beyond the grave. One superpower at a time! Suddenly, for a brief moment, he felt weightless—until pain radiated throughout his chest and he crashed through a sheet of drywall. It took him a moment to get his bearings while plaster dust settled around him, getting in his eyes and lungs, causing him to cough and tear up at the eyes.

…Fast Forward…

Castiel kept an eye trained on Dean's form trying to extricate himself from the wall. The other eye he kept on the spiritual distortion before him. He reached out to it with a cold fury and gripped its ectoplasm, channeling all his righteousness into the grace. The distortion before him began to glow brighter and brighter until it disappeared in a burst of blinding white light. His anger went with it as he worriedly turned back to observe Dean—and Sam too of course.

Dean braced his hands on his knees as he bent over coughing. "What the hell was that?" he rasped. "I'm seeing stars."

Sam blinked rapidly, trying to coax his pupils out of their painful constriction. "I have no idea. You think it just burned itself out?"  
"No ghost we've encountered before has ever done that. This is weird, even for us." Dean shook his head, dismissing Sam's hypothesis and immediately regretted it when the room spun again. He groaned and bent down to grab the poker from among the wall debris.

While Sam and Dean discussed what had just happened, Castiel tried to edge his way past Dean through the door way. Perhaps he could make himself visible downstairs and then make contact with Dean—and Sam—when they returned outside. It would be simple enough to pretend he was hunting in the area as well, a part he was well-versed in playing. It was just too tempting to talk to Dean, albeit as more of a stranger rather than a friend, considering the year they were in. He was too wrapped up in his plan to remember the most dreadfully unfortunate aspect of the house: its creaking floorboards.

He was just past the threshold of the door when the board underneath his foot creaked loudly, the unmistakable sound of the floor being stepped on.

Dean whirled around with a roar, aiming directly at Cas' chest with the iron weapon. "I know you're here, and I know you're behind me, you son of a bitch!"

Cas panicked. With his concentration lost and without thinking, he made himself visible. Dean didn't shirk from the sudden appearance of a threat he'd been anticipating for so long. Now with a target, he shifted his aim to the vessel's heart. Cas instinctively put his hand up to block the blade, like he had done so many times before when fighting against a particularly difficult and precocious evildoer. "Dean, _no!" _His voice rang throughout the house, making the window panes explode and shatter.

The hunter's face had less than a split second of surprise as Castiel's naked palm touched the strip of wrist that had appeared from under his coat sleeve. Then Dean disappeared.

…

Castiel stood there frozen, his arm still outstretched before him, in the same spot Dean had been in barely a moment ago. What had he done? He began shaking convulsively, trying to reign in the sudden abundance of emotion: terror, distress, the pain of loss. A new future snapped itself into place, and while he could remember everything, since it was his own past, he realized that every single being on the earth had no idea of what should have been. Dean especially would have no clue of anything that had happened and changed between him and Cas over the course of their friendship in the years that should have followed.

"What the fuck did you do to Dean?" a voice demanded. Castiel couldn't remember who. Who had been in the room as well? He slowly came to grasps with reality again, bringing him face to face with the Colt. He stared unblinkingly at the gun, faintly recognizing it from lore.

His shoulders slumped. He'd have to explain it all now, wouldn't he? Sam would not believe him, nor side with him, considering his attitude in the past. "That gun will not harm me, Sam. You might as well put it away, since I am not going to attack you."

The hammer of the gun clicked back. "You attacked Dean."

Castiel exhaled a drained sigh. "I did not mean to. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen, this was never supposed to happen." He passed a hand roughly over his face, unconsciously mimicking Dean's habit, feeling much older than his millennia. "Come. I will try to explain." It crossed his mind as an order, but came out as a plea. "First we should leave the house; it is not safe with all the ghosts." He stepped to the side and waited as Sam slowly crossed in front of him, keeping the barrel of the Colt firmly aimed at his forehead. He trudged down the stairs, letting the younger Winchester follow at his own speed, allowing him the comfort of the pretense of control with the gun pressed to the back of his head.

He stood stone-still on the porch while Sam demanded the truth for a third time. "That is the truth, Sam," he replied calmly. "You can choose whether or not you want to believe me, but you cannot choose what _is _and what _isn't._ And this is."

"Okay, no. Stop lying to me." Sam shook the demon knife at Castiel, having opted to switch it for the gun now he was close to this strange _thing. _"There is no such thing as angels! I should know! I've prayed every night since I can remember. I've prayed from God to every saint to every angel I can think of, and not a single thing I've ever begged for has ever been answered. How can you account for that, huh?" he demanded.

Castiel stared him down with his blank blue eyes. "Prayers are rarely directed to me. As I informed you thusly, I am an avenging angel. Your prayers would never have been under my jurisdiction unless you were summoning me for revenge. Most likely they went through a process of appeal with the others, and they ended up not feeling the need to intervene."

Sam glared at him and stretched tall over the "angel," trying to compensate for the very small and vulnerable feeling next to the soft-spoken man who claimed to be a goddamn angel. His jaw flexed furiously. "You killed Dean," Sam growled. "Look, I tried to do what Dean told me to do. I tried not to be too hard on you, I tried to trust you, you son of a bitch. Look where it got me. I knew some bad shit would happen because of you. _Fuck."_

Castiel narrowed his eyes. "You are calling for vengeance upon me. You ask for retaliation upon the one who took your brother from you. Do you understand what your request entails?" Cas, of course, understood what it meant were a human to ask an avenging angel to wreak vengeance upon itself.

The human's eyes widened almost comically. "How the hell did you know that?"

"You channeled your thoughts to me. Your mind is crying out for anyone to listen, and I am the one who is." Castiel straightened, his vessel's heart oddly constricting in his chest. "I will attempt penance for my actions, and I will do anything you ask of me to my best ability."

"I want you to bring Dean back from the dead—"

"I cannot—" Castiel interrupted.

"Then I want you to kill yourself," Sam replied instantly, coldly.

The angel froze. Then extended his angel blade, the only real weapon capable of killing him. He looked at it, considering his reflection, before bringing the point to his throat. "If you would desist in interrupting me, I feel it only prudent to warn you that my death—"

"_Do it."_

"If you force me to go through with this you will never see you brother again I can find him I am the only one who can find him and I will if you would just allow me the chance," Cas said in a burst of words, not even pausing. Sam said nothing. He took a very unnecessary, very human deep breath and began pressing the blade deeper. He was bound by Heavenly oath to do as he had sworn.

"Wait."

Castiel immediately stopped, wishing to gasp in overwhelming relief. Not particularly for his own life, but for the renewed chance he might have to save Dean.

"Explain what you mean."

He resheathed the blade, hoping it would no longer have use. "I do not think you understood what I meant. I did not kill your brother. In fact, he should be very much alive. I merely sent him back in time."

"Oh yeah," Sam replied sarcastically. "You _just _sent him back in time. Remind me to send you a thank you card for not doing something horrible."

The angel's blue eyes flared with anger. "I am trying to help," he bit out. "Now can you please let me explain?" He paused, waiting for another argument or bitter reply. "I can find Dean; it might take time, but I have an unlimited amount of time. I was not focusing on any specific time period when I made physical contact with Dean, so I do not know exactly where I sent him. But he is alive, I swear to you, for now. I would search the entire life and expanse of the universe to find him."

Finally, after a long heartbeat, Sam dropped the knife. "Find him," he demanded coldly. "I don't care how long it takes; you find him and you bring him back to me. Then you get the hell out of our lives, and I never want to see you again."

Castiel nodded once, bowing his head in acquiescence. "As you command, so shall I do."

…

_Blink._

Dean spun around, freaked out, disbelieving. This was some kind of hallucination. He grasped several different poor passersby and shook them all, asking them the same round of questions. "Where am I?"

"London, England?"

"What day is it?" he shook them with increasing fervor.

"Tuesday?"

"_What year?" _He finally asked the golden question, having avoided it ever since he saw the abundance of _things _that should be antique or vintage, not running around on the street: cars, buildings, clothes…

"1959," they stammered, yanking themselves out of his limp hands and hurried away. They had to be lying. Dean searched around and his eyes landed on a stack of newspapers by a shop door. He ran over and picked one up, violently shaking as he scanned the page. The air felt like it had been punched from his lungs. September 18, 1959. "Hoshit."

* * *

**A/N: **and…BAM. How was that? How did I do? Was that everything you hoped for? Was it surprising, or was it too predictable? _Tell me. _Seriously, tell me. Because I know there are a lot of you guys reading this, but you're not reviewing! Pleaaase don't read and run on me! What am I supposed to feed upon? I need your reviews and encouragement and feels for nourishment; help a starving writer out. On another note: I might start revising earlier chapters in order to reduce their utter horrendousness that I now recognize, having taken an objective step back. I don't know how soon I'll start, or if I'll even get to it before summer if I continue writing you guys these insanely long (for me personally) (bi)weekly chapters. Seriously, I punch these things out during the week at school or work on it for five, six hours straight on the weekend. That's way more effort than I put into any Lit essay.

But anyway, I'll let you guys know when and if I get to revisions before June (wow, seems so far and yet so short away). Don't worry though, I won't be changing anything major so you won't have to reread it if you don't want to. Also if you notice any discrepancies in the timelines or something that _should _cause a paradox and literally doesn't make any sense, you can suspend your disbelief and ignore it, or you can tell me and I'll try to fix it as best I can. :) Frankly though, just trying to figure the logistics of this story out and how Cas works makes me want to beat my head against a wall. But oh my gosh I have literally had this planned out since the very beginning and I _finally _got to write it! Argh I am so thrilled, the real fun can begin now! Also, I figured out a solution to my "I need to include more Destiel before all hell breaks loose" problem. You'll see in the next chapter, or the one after that. I literally have three pages handwritten on a specific scene. Oh my, this is glorious. I am deliriously happy.


	8. Albatross

**A/N: **albatross (n) - a psychological burden that feels like a curse

[Weight of Living Pt. I by _Bastille_]

Warning: murder and some blood. Not really gory or descriptive, just mentioned.

* * *

Dean's first week in 1959 was spent in a jail cell, detained for various charges of destruction of property, public nuisance, and assaulting a police officer. Since he had no money to post bail, he remained in there while he waited for a judge to sentence him. When he was released, it was with the conditions of repairing or paying for the properties he destroyed, as well as a hefty fine for everything else. He was also ordered to report to the American embassy in order to replace the passport he'd 'lost.'

Either way, Dean was screwed. Utterly screwed. How the hell was he supposed to pay off all this crap if he didn't even properly exist yet? Even if he was able to pay off his fines, he still had to pay for food and lodging _while _he worked, not to mention how much cash it would take to pay someone off to make him a fake passport, and then to buy a ticket to New York. He figured it would take him up to a year to earn up enough money, not to mention having to stay under the radar.

After finally having accepted his lot in life, he set out to find some dubiously honest work. With his charm and handsome face, Dean had no trouble finding work of all kinds. After three days working the streets, he'd earned enough money to convince someone in the unsavory area of London to rent him a room and work at the illegal drinking established located nearby. He preferred to be around the type of people who didn't ask questions, which was why he'd rather work four low-paying jobs in the ghetto than a fair-paying one up in the posh streets.

A month past his arrival in 1959, he established a schedule for his life, trying to fill the loneliness and fear with busywork. He tended the illicit bar from late afternoon into the late night, whereupon he'd go off duty and proposition bargoers who would accept more often than not. It wasn't the most savory way to supplement his income with easy work, but hell his dignity had made concessions in order to pay for food and rent before. He tried not to dwell on any of it. In the wee hours of the morning he stumbled out of unfamiliar beds to find his own and gain another hour or two of sleep to round it up to his usual rest of four. When the sun rose he was up to deliver newspapers as quickly as he could before heading to waiter at a restaurant until his shift began at the bar.

Dean Winchester didn't make friends; he made allies. He made allies with patrons who had important connections; he made allies with criminals; and he made allies with the people he worked with. People began flocking to him like moths to a candle after he began making a reputation for himself as the aloof enforcer of the unspoken laws in the slums. He was the one someone went to if they were being robbed, or stalked, or mugged. He never asked for much in lieu of payment, perhaps a meal, a drink at the bar, maybe some clothes, and in return Dean would teach the instigator a lesson. Rapidly, people learned to keep their morals on mostly the high ground when he was nearby. Once when he'd caught a douchebag trying to slip something into their date's drink, he'd left them badly beaten in the alleyway outside. Another person had stolen all the money two parents had been saving up to send their child to college, but the next morning all the money had been replaced, with no explanation. Even schoolyard bullies were not spared a lesson when Dean caught them beating on younger classmates; they were given a stern lecture to quit doing it or…It was implied that if they continued to beat people up when they were older, Dean would find them. This was one of their three warnings.

After this intervention in the schoolyard, children began to hero-worship Dean, even the former (now-reformed) bullies. They exchanged tales of his heroic actions they overheard from their parents' dinner table. For the kids without enough money for books or entertainment, he became their hero.

"Did you know Dean got in a fight last night? He totally _crushed _the _five _guys that ganged up on him!"

"Whoa, really?! They must've been new! I heard that last week, Dean set all of Mr. Barham's alcohol on fire when he heard him beating his dog again!"

"Okay but did you hear that Ms. Maison was mugged last night and she got stabbed and Dean was the one who found her and kept her from ex-ex-san-guin-ating and then he went and found the guy that did it and beat 'im up!"

"No way! D'you think she'll be better in time for Monday's lesson? Dean said it was real important to get 'n education.

Dean was totally a superhero.

Even the mothers liked him. No matter how late or early or busy he was, he always tried to help them fix stuff, or he'd drop off any "extra" food he had. They all knew Dean probably bought it with his own money, or took it from his own pantry—they could see how lean he was getting—but they couldn't afford to refuse it with hungry mouths to feed.

Some of the husbands didn't appreciate Dean's solicitousness and approached him threateningly at the bar. Dean merely waved their concerns aside and told them that if they had no problem watching their family starve, they could go ahead and kick his ass. They learned quickly. He also took it upon himself to stop allowing known domestic abusers into the establishment, as well as cutting off any violent drunks before they were thoroughly drunk.

In return for Dean seemingly taking it upon himself to act like a Western sheriff in the middle of London, the community kept their mouths shut about any of his actions and denied everything when the cops came asking questions. They let Dean keep to himself, but with subtle gestures and kind conversations, they made it abundantly clear that he was one of their own.

Thus passed five months and Dean found himself having survived to 1960.

It started with brutal killings of sex workers who also frequented the same bar as Dean. Dean had known several of them, and he had liked them. It was a dangerous position to be in for the murderer. One did not simply kill someone Dean Winchester liked without it coming back to bite them on the ass sevenfold.

Dean had just been laying down to catch his four hours of sleep when there was a racket, a racket banging at his dingy flat's door. He shot up, all thoughts of sleep forgotten, and grabbed a large hunting knife he kept under his pillow. He snuck over to the door cautiously cracking it open and quickly hiding the knife behind his back. It was just Charles, one of the older kids on the street.

"Man, what is it?" he demanded gruffly. Eyeing the boy's wild, excited posture. "And stop bouncing. You'll wake up Mrs. Dalson's baby downstairs."

Charles stood still immediately, practically at military attention, but his eyes still danced with thrill. "Sorry, but my mum told me to fetch you real quick! There's a dead body out back of the bar!"

Dean started to shut the door, saying, "You know I don't do dead bodies. Call me if it's a bully, or the monster under your bed, okay? Leave the regular dead bodies to the actual police."

The boy shoved his foot between the door and the frame, pressing his face against the gap. "Trust me, you'll wanna see this. Momma pushed me away before I got a good look, but I saw anyway. Their throat was ripped out. So much blood."

The man's jaw tightened, and he nodded tersely. "Alright, I'll come." He threw on the previous day's clothes, grabbed an even larger knife, and the two of them ran down to the bar.

"Hey, Ms. Hanover."

The older woman's creased face relaxed in obvious relief. "Dean, thank god you're here." She wiped her hands on her apron and hustled him towards the back door, fixing a stern eye on her son. "Stay put, Charles. Don't come out back, you hear me?"

After closing the door to the bar light and raucous drinking, she slumped against the wall. "My lord…it's just terrible. I didn't touch her, 'cept to push back her hair and see who the poor girl was. It's Joan." The bartender ran a shaky hand over her face. "I'm very sorry to bother you, Dean. I know you need your sleep, but I didn't want to leave this 'till your shift."

"It's okay ma'am, no problem at all. Do you want to go back inside? I think I can take care of myself." Dean crouched next to the body, looking up expectantly.

"Bless you boy, I think I will." Ms. Hanover leant over and placed a motherly kiss on his cheek. "I'll make sure no one bother you. And don't you worry about the other girls; they've already found beds for tonight."

Dean nodded. "Good. Can you check up on all of them in the morning?"

"Of course. Dean? Thank you for all you've done here. It was getting real bad just before you came, and now it's so much better. I don't worry as much about my bar girls and Charles. Thank you."

The hunter fidgeted under her gratitude, unaccustomed to being thanked. "It's no trouble at all; this is my business after all." He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the lump. "Do you know where I can get syringes?" he asked, changing the subject.

Ms. Hanover nodded. "I confiscated a few from a patron on heroin a couple nights back. Don't need to be clean, do they?"

Whereupon Dean shook his head and assured her those would be just fine, she bustled back in and out, returning with the promised syringes. After she left to return to the bar, he quickly filled them with Joan's blood.

He took a moment to stare sadly at her bloodied body. "Who were you going home with, huh? Whoever they were, I'm going to kill them. …God, I wish you weren't in this business. I wish none of us were, but we gotta pay the rent somehow, don't we? You were a great girl though, I bet they'll let you into that big pie in the sky. Hell, maybe I'll see you there after this. Actually, you never know with me; I might end up taking the elevator downstairs. Ha, oh well." He bushed a hand through her hair, probably the only part of her not soaked in blood, and closed her eyelids. Standing up, his gaze was dark and pretty damn murderous as he gripped his knife. Time to go vampire hunting.

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**A/N: **Ugh, guys I'm sorry for taking a while to update. Honestly, I just don't have an affinity for writing hunts; usually they just take too long for me to set up and get the details right. For me they're just…blech. I'm bad. Then coupled with my ineptitude, these weeks leading up to finals have been kicking my ass so I haven't found much time to write. So I may not have another chapter until the beginning of June. Sorry! That scene I mentioned in my last author's note? Yeah, it might make an appearance in the next chapter, depending on how long it takes me to wrap up Dean's revenge hunt. Also, I'm going to try to include some Sam POV somewhere soon, so hopefully he'll seem more like the Sam we know and love. I am feeling like such a disappointment haha; this story is taking so much longer than I originally planned to get it to this point. But anyway, thank you all so much who are giving my first foray into an extended story a chance! xx


	9. Cemeteries of London

**Cemeteries of London**

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**A/N: **Ohmigod. Season finale tomorrow. I AM NOT PREPARED. But really, is anyone ever prepared for season finales? I might actually pass out if I keep talking/thinking about it. On a more ecstatic note: OMG COLDPLAY'S NEW ALBUM. That's partially what made me remember the title of the song that is this chapter's title. (Cemeteries of London - Coldplay) The other part is I also heard it on a Sherlock playlist a while ago. Cemeteries of London just seemed like a creepy song for a hunt, no? God this story is RUINING ME. Like whenever I hear a song on the radio all I can think is: oh this could go in a Destiel playlist, or, oh I need to make this line a chapter title. I'm giving myself so many feels over unwritten chapters it's utterly ridiculous. Tell me I'm not alone. Later on if this story does get emotional enough for a playlist, I might actually make one. I'm really hoping it does because I've never been mean enough to poor TFW for an actual playlist. [cackles] But now you guys see what happens when lots of you review? _Updates. _Seriously though, thank you guys for your kind words and suggestions, etc. Indulge the addict. Side Note: when I say 'the blade' I don't mean _The Blade. _Warnings: there's a torture scene and swearing.

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Dean had stalked the streets of London all that night, up until the sun crested the horizon and he had to rush back to get to his job. Having not caught the vampire that night, Dean found himself itching to spend every waking moment hunting the monster. However, he knew the fruitlessness of hunting during daylight hours, so he forced himself to go about as normal until the sky blackened.

He barely got any sleep, since all of his waking hours were spent working or searching for the vamp. Quite a few nights he came back covered in blood, having found some other vampire to question about their whereabouts and associates. With the hunt dragging on and no one to help him, Dean became quite run down and exhausted. Most monsters couldn't evade Dean Winchester on their tails for more than 48 hours, yet this one had stayed clear for nearly a week, and was still able to continue murdering other escort-friends of Dean's. It was clever and experienced, for a vampire.

Six bodies in six days, and the neighborhood was on edge, and Dean only had the name McAlister—tortured out of another vamp. It was quieter at night, with more people returning earlier to the relative safety of their homes. Dean always checked in with Ms. Hanover before he went out and prowled around. Sometimes he'd catch the end of a trail and would follow it, but it would be lost in the center of the city and he would have to wait for the arrival of the next night and body.

Upon the eighth night however, Dean was taking the garbage out back into the alley when he saw two figures—one too tall and lean, and the other (perhaps blonde-haired?) petite. With his shout, the taller figure made a rapid move with his hands and Dean could hear the dull crack even from where he was standing. The body had just started to slump against the wall when he was off like a shot, trying to run down the vampire. It was a seemingly useless endeavor, but the Winchester was nothing if persistent.

His lungs burned something fierce and he couldn't tell if his feet were still attached, or if they were just worn out stumps from all the running. While he wasn't exactly gaining on the vampire, he wasn't falling behind either, an impressive feat of itself. Dean knew he wouldn't be able to keep up the pace for much longer, so he decided to go all in and throw a hail mary pass of a knife covered in dead man's blood. He hit his mark's back with a solid thud, almost up to the hilt. Of course a hit like that wouldn't kill a vampire, but Dean knew it would sure as hell slow it down. He made a final push of speed and managed to catch up to the vamp, who was just stumbling away at a slower sprint than before.

Dean emptied as many small blades as he could into the thing, until it was like a walking armory pincushion. At last he was able to wrestle it to the ground, face-up, and grinding the blades in its back even further in. It howled and screamed through its teeth in poorly-concealed anguish. Dean laughed harshly, an ugly sound forcing its way out of his throat. "That's gotta hurt like a bitch," he snarled.

Up close, Dean could now see that the vampire would look like some kid in their early-twenties, if it weren't for his vicious-looking teeth and the face twisted in an ugly grimace. "Come on, ugly, can't handle a little burn?"

The vampire coughed wetly, trying to cackle. "Doesn't hurt as bad as it hurt you, your little _friends _dying. You're gonna die too, maybe not by me, but one of the others will find you." It wheezed another sneer.

Dean's face contorted in fury as he whipped out his biggest knife yet and drew it lightly across the vamp's throat, just barely dancing across the skin and having blood well up behind it. "Listen to me," he said softly, dangerously, in the voice that made most demons run. The vamp barely flinched. "First, I'm gonna torture some answers out of you. Second, I'm gonna torture you just for the hell of it. Third, I'm gonna kill you—slowly. Of course you could give me my answers willingly, but that wouldn't be fun. So first question: Why kill all those girls? No vamp can possibly be stupid enough to mess with a hunter's friends, not even you, jackass."

The vampire McAlister snorted, baring his teeth and black eyes glittering in the dark. "None of your—" he grunted as the blade pressed deeper into his throat. "Fffineeef—_fine! _The orders were to make anyone allied with you suffer! And to kill you!" he choked out bitterly, throat convulsing on blood, which he spat at Dean's face.

Dean bared his teeth in return, paying no mind to the blood spattered across his face. "What orders?" he demanded. "There's no way I've even been here long enough to piss off some underground big shot!"

McAlister tried to cackle again, a horribly twisted sound coming from someone who looked so young. "I would have killed them without being told to anyway, and you eventually, just to make that seraphic bastard suffer! And oh, I would enjoy that," he chortled.

"Getting pretentious much? Come on, make it to the point! What were the fucking orders?" Dean drew the blade against its skin several more times, viciously pleased at the muffled cries the vamp let out at the touch of dead man's blood.

"The orders were to kill you—at any cost—anyone who helped you—just get rid of you," it rasped, eyes bulging.

The hunter pressed down harder. "Who gave the orders?" he growled, rough with anger and malice, and a whole bunch of repressed emotions.

"Uh-uh-uh!" the vamp sang in a taunting, false falsetto. "Rule number one: don't say anything ab—" he squawked as the knife sank a full third of the way into his throat.

"Castiel? The one who sent out the hit for me: _was their name Castiel?" _Dean began to shake, his fury finally mixing with adrenaline. "What was their name?" he half shouted, shaking the vamp by the shoulders.

McAlister chuckled in glee, or at least as much coherent sound as he could get out. "No, Castiel will also suffer. I've been waiting _millennia _to get the drop on him, just watching for the chance to make him suffer and struggle as I did. And now I'm here," he began choking on his own blood again, hacking and struggling for breath he didn't need.

"How do you know who Castiel is? What the fuck are you even talking about?" Dean was losing patience, with more questions being created than were answered.

The vampire surged up towards Dean, and was just barely restrained by the knife in his throat. "You and me Dean, we're alike. Castiel touched me _too. _But _you _are his little human pet, and there're more coming for ya._" _McAlister began gurgling through the blood in his throat and reddish foam appearing at his mouth and running down the corner. His eyes shone insanely, wide enough to see the whites of his eyes all around. With a sudden movement, he pulled Dean back down on top of him and his hands forward, decapitating himself in a surprisingly effective way against the pavement.

Dean just sat there for a couple minutes, panting, the blade still clutched in his hand, and blood running down his face and soaking his clothes.

Had McAlister just said there were _more _coming for Dean? Shit. Shit shit _shit. _Dean's throat worked not to let the unusual fear rising in his chest escape. More? How could there be more? McAlister was the first monster to personally come after him in the half year he'd been in London. No one even _knew _him here, let alone a bunch of hit men and their boss who wanted him dead.

This was bad; this was so, so, _so fucking bad. _If McAlister had managed to find him despite his new, unknown existence in 1960, that meant his buddies would come along soon enough. Dean ran a freaked-out hand through his hair, mind racing with all the ways he could disappear. This was the first time he'd had to erase himself without anyone else to help. Goddamn, he hadn't even had enough time to save up the expected amount of money to pay off his fines and for airfare. He'd planned on at least another six months to round it out, and now he would need to be gone in a matter of days.

There was no way he could possibly get a fake passport and airfare money that quickly. There wasn't even anyone he could bear to steal the money from.. He was still several hundred dollars short on the airfare, and the impossibility of it all made him want to throw up.

But he wasn't named Dean Winchester for nothing. He pulled it all together in a record four days of paranoia and not eating. Sure, his method(s) of getting the money were unsavory and perhaps involved ridding the world of some truly bad guys, but he refused to let his moral qualms get any more in the way of his survival. He'd grown soft in the past months.

He quit all his jobs and only said goodbye to Ms. Hanover the very night he left, enveloping her in a tight hug, and trying to take any motherly comfort he could garner. With a kiss to her cheek and his duffle slung over his shoulder, he zigzagged through the still dark streets of London to the small airport that didn't ask questions. Only when he was on the plane and watching the city line disappear behind storm clouds did he relax and allow any form of thought and suddenly remember that he was scared of flying. Damn.

After landing in New York, Dean began to work his way across America, trying to get away from all the big cities and highways. He worked his way to Indiana, where he got picked up and basically driven for free to Nevada, which was far and desolate enough for him. Dean made sure to thank his lucky stars for the fucking hippies.

Settling back into life at a small town was an entirely different matter than becoming accustomed to London those first few weeks. For one, Americans were nosy as hell. And rude, so damn rude. Which of course made it no problem at all for Dean to become some sort of a twisted Robin Hood and steal varying amounts of money from the rich families. It was enough to start with.

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"What do you mean you can't find him?"

"Not yet. I can't find him _yet."_

"It's been four goddamn hours! No way you could have searched at all."

"It was four hours for you. I have been searching for months. Now mostly, my accidents are sent back several millennia. It is a lot of time and Earth to search. I swear I am trying; I have done nothing but search for him. I've even gone 'off the grid' so that my superiors cannot track me and interfere. I am doing all I can."

"No, okay? I don't fucking _care _that you're trying."

"Sam—"

"Save it. Because if Dean doesn't come back soon, I swear to God I will kill you myself. That's how it usually works doesn't it? I kill the sire, and everything fixes itself? I ought to just kill you now…"

"Now Sam, Sam…don't be hasty. There has never been any experiment documenting and confirming that occurrence in my kind. It would be irrational for you to kill me, not while we still have a chance at finding Dean. Give me time, please. I will update you with any progress."

"Then hurry up."

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**A/N: **And here we are! America again! I'm sort of concerned about what my plan is now (because I'm an idiot who doesn't think things through). Let's respond to some reviews, kay?

Writing-ontheImpala: thanks you so much! Yeah, the title took me a bit to think up but when I heard the song, it hit me like a brick haha. :) I love this song too

DeenaTweety: Gahh! Praise! Anyway I'm hoping I get their reunion right next chapter (I think? That's the plan for now) Thank you!

dhh: Honestly, I'm just terrible at writing Sam. I just never really connected to his character as much as others, so I can never get his voice just right. Also I'm kinda gratuitously using him to further the plot so…sorry Sammy! Hopefully that last section of Sam/Cas' conversation explains more of why Sam is being such a dick?

BookAddict67: Yay, you're here again! I was so freaking pleased that you caught my reference to Dean's being raised from Perdition! I also gratuitously use lines and dates from canon, haha. (bad writer! [sprays self with water]) About your questions: Cas can feel whatever he touches for a split second before it's gone (think how long it took people to disappear with actual weeping angels in Doctor Who), so yes, he did actually touch Dean briefly. And I guess we'll just have to experiment to what base (if any) Cas can make it to with Dean. ;)


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